But He Bought More Mace
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: [[ UsUk oneshots ]] The first thing Alfred worried about was whether or not what he had done was illegal. Really, it didn't seem illegal. It was rather unprovoked,and the poor guy screaming on the ground certainly seemed to think so, but Alfred had reasonable suspicion that he was going to be attacked. Maybe he could call it an accident? "You maced me!"
1. But He Bought More Mace

The first thing Alfred worried about was whether or not what he had done was illegal.

Really, it didn't _seem_ illegal. It _was_ rather unprovoked,and the poor guy screaming on the ground certainly seemed to think so, but Alfred had reasonable suspicion that he was going to be attacked. Maybe he could call it an accident?

"You fucking _maced_ me!"

Alfred was standing over the poor guy, mace can in hand, feeling really guilty. He could run, but that would be a totally douche thing to do. He knelt down by the guy. The guy tried to kick him, tears streaming down his face.

"I just wanted to know where the fucking ATM was, you mother fucking git fuck!"

Well, now Alfred _really_ felt bad. "Holy shit, are you okay?"

A beat of silence. "You fucking _maced_ me!"

"Oh, my God, I thought you were this creepy mother fucker who likes to creep and I thought that it was him and not—Oh, fuck, I'm really, really sorry. I—I don't think you're supposed'to wipe at it, that will—"

"Oh, _sod off_!" The guy screamed.

It was all very awkward.

"Oh, Jesus," Alfred continued, making a metal note to apologize to God later, "Look, we should probably get you to the doctor. Holy fuck. My car is like, right over there. I'mma—"

The guy scrambled away, rolling off of the sidewalk and into the gutter. It was a good thing it was really late, otherwise the poor guy could have been hit by a car. Alfred stood, throwing the mace can away.

"Don't fucking come near me!" The guy screamed.

"Look, calm your fucking tits!" Alfred yelled back, nearly kicking the guy. "It's two in the fucking morning, you can't see, you're _crying_ , and it's my fault you're in a puddle right now! So, I'm _sorry_ and I _apologize_ but you have to go to the fucking hospital, alright?"

The guy's face was all fucked up. Red, blotchy—his eyes were almost swelled entirely shut. He was all kinds of messed up. Mace really kicked ass, apparently. But the guy wasn't responding, and for one terrible moment, Alfred thought the guy's throat at swollen shut.

"Fine."

It was an amazingly calm answer for someone who was just maced.

"Okay then," Alfred said, still oddly aggressive. He placed his hands on his hips. "Do you need help getting to my car?"

"Fuck off."

Alfred threw his hands in the air. "What is your issue?!"

"You _maced_ me!"

"Yes, and I'm trying to help you get to the fucking hospital so they can, like, I don't know fucking clean the mace out of your eyes! But you're gonna' have to help me out a little bit, okay? I, just, stand up."

Slowly, ever so slowly, the guy did as he was told. He was wearing a sweater vest, and for some reason, this made Alfred feel like a giant asshole. He had maced a guy who wore sweat vests—what was he, some sort of bully? Only bullies fucked up guys who wore sweat vests.

"Look, I really am sorry," Alfred said, hunching his shoulders. "You just sort of freaked me out."

"Fuck off. Get me to the fucking hospital." The guy did not seem appeased.

Alfred led the guy to the car, opening the door and then having another screaming match with him. This guy had a major stick up his ass. This probably had something to do with his eyes swelling shut.

It was really quiet in the car. Probably because the guy—

"So, uh, what's your name?" Alfred was driving through the deserted streets, but it was still going to take a while to get to the hospital. Plus, Alfred made it a point to know as many peoples' names as possible. "I'm Alfred Jones."

"Why do you want to know?" The guy spat, face pressed against the cool window.

"Oh, shit, you're English? That's awesome. I think my grandparents or something were from England. But I'm a hot-blooded American, myself." Alfred was stalling; he actually had no fucking idea where the hospital was.

"Fuck off."

Had Alfred not maced the guy and felt really fucking guilty about it, he would have kicked the guy out of his car. But Alfred really wanted this guy not to hate him—and press charges.

"I visited London for a semester. It was really cool. I had some really cool French guy show me around. We took a train and saw some ruins from Rome, and the big ol' Ben. It was really cool, even though the weather sucked the entire time."

Finally, "Arthur."

Alfred looked over and grinned. Well, at least Mr. Pissy wasn't so pissy anymore. He still had no idea where the hospital was, but he usually just drove around. Things tended to go well for him when he left it up to chance, so he just drove around until he saw the blue signs for hospitals.

…

"Fuck off!"

Alfred tried to look over the bouquet. "I brought flowers!" At least Arthur's face wasn't all fucked up anymore. Actually, the guy was pretty cute. "I know one of the nurses, and she said it was okay if I brought you these."

Arthur wasn't frowning—he almost seemed amused.

"I'm really sorry about macing you."

The frown reappeared, and Alfred laughed.

* * *

 **For yescherryboomiero:** Muahahahaha... an awkward first meeting AU: "I was trying to ask for directions and you accidentally pepper sprayed me cause you thought I was your stalker."... you know the ship :*

From Tumblr.


	2. Running and Rowing

**Note: These were originally posted in the FF . net story "Flying Pieces of Paper." They have been moved to this new story in an organizational attempt.**

 **UsUk oneshots.**

* * *

"Tony, I'm going for a run," Alfred called, zipping up his sweatshirt.

Tony looked up from his laptop—well, at least Alfred _thought_ Tony looked up. Tony was his roommate. He had one of those sweatshirts that could be zipped all the way up and had a face on the hood. It was grey, and had an alien face, and Tony always wore it. Alfred wasn't sure why, and Tony cursed an awful lot instead of actually talking, but he was cool.

"Fuck," Tony mumbled, and Alfred ran out the door.

Alfred loved running. Alfred loved running like he loved spring and video games, which is a lot. There was nothing better than running down the street and feeling his lungs and legs burn. He loved the wind that would blow his hair back when he ran by the river.

Alfred dodged potholes in the sidewalk, looking to his right and watching the river pass by. When it was warmer out, Alfred liked to finish his runs by jumping in the water. But it was enough to run by it in the fall.

"Fuck!"

Alfred slowed and looked behind him, wondering if Tony had followed him. He was alone. Alfred shrugged, picking up his pace.

"Fuck—hey! Excuse me?"

Alfred stopped and looked around, eyebrows furrowed. He had read stories about ghosts that would attack hitchhikers when they were alone. Or was it the hitchhikers that would attack people who picked them up? Alfred was about to sprint off when there came a splash from his right.

"Could I trouble you to help?" Came a frustrated voice.

Alfred trotted to the edge of a river to see a man. A very wet man. Who had a boat. The man had light blond hair and green eyes Alfred could see from here. He must have been freezing, but he was waist deep in the water and holding on to his skinny boat with a determined look on his face.

"Dude, why are you in the river?" Alfred asked, approaching the water's edge. There was no way he was going in there. It was October, for Chrissake.

"I tipped over," the man snapped, hugging the boat closer. "Something's caught on the seat, and I have to dive under and unhook it. But the boat will float away. I just need you to hold it…"

Alfred grimaced at the water. "Look, I dunno' where you come from, but in America, in October, we don't get in rivers."

The man glared. "And I'm from England. I can't feel my feet."

Alfred felt his shoulders slump. He really, really didn't want to get into the river. He would be all wet, and he'd have to go home and change and then come back out to run _again_. Alfred was about to decline when he saw the England's teeth chatter; something inside him broke and he groaned.

"Why were you in a boat, anyways?" Alfred asked, tugging off sweatshirt and shirt.

"I row crew," England answered, looking annoyed when his teeth continued to rattle.

Alfred kicked off his shoes and socks. He debated about taking his pants off, but seeing England's face as his hands hovered near his waist settled the debate for him. He trudged into the water, gritting his teeth.

"I thought there were eight people in a boat?" Alfred asked, wincing as he slowly approached England.

"This is a single," England mumbled. "Alright, hold it around there and _do not_ let go. I'll be back up in a second." And then he disappeared under the water. Alfred tapped his fingers on the hull of the boat. He hoped England hadn't drowned.

The boat suddenly gave way, and Alfred gripped the wet surface a little tighter. England reappeared, pushing the boat towards the shore.

"Oh, crap."

England looked annoyed. "What is it?"

"The thing—" Alfred had forgotten the word. God damn it—what was it called?!

"Are you illiterate?" England asked, raising a thick eyebrow.

"Argh, it's floating away!" Alfred dropped into the water and reemerged on the other side of the boat. He handed England his glasses before splashing after the thing-that-was-floating-away. Alfred waded deeper and deeper, ignoring England's panicked yells.

He reached out. God, he was so close. His finger brushed the handle and he lunged, grabbing hold of the thing-that-was-floating-away-but-no-longer. Alfred let out a cheer and hauled himself backwards through the water.

"Don't worry, I got it!" Alfred said, grinning when he returned to England's boat.

England stared at him like he had grown a second head.

"I remember—it's an oar!" Alfred nodded, proud of himself. "Yeah, anyways, the oar was floating away and I got it for you. Aren't you cold?"

"Are you bloody _insane_?" England shrieked. "You could have killed yourself! You're probably going to catch hypothermia now all because of a stupid _oar_? You could have been dragged out by the current! You could have _drowned_."

Now, usually, Alfred didn't like being yelled at. But there was something about the way that England's face moved when he talked, and the way his free hand went to his hip, and the way that—before he had started yelling—there had been almost something like admiration in his eyes. It made Alfred smile even more.

"Why are you smirking?" England ask, eyes narrowing, teeth chattering forgotten.

"I'm Alfred F. Jones, pleased to meet you," Alfred said, grinning even more when he saw England's face. "Now, let's get this boat out of the water before we turn into icicles."

Together, the two of them flipped the boat back over. After that, it was surprisingly easy to lift out of the water and onto the shore. Alfred put his shirt back on, watching as England ripped his off.

"Dude, you're gonna' freeze. Here, take my sweatshirt. Oh, come on, just take it," Alfred threw his sweatshirt at England, who caught it and begrudgingly put it on. "Uh, are you gonna' call someone about the boat? Because we can't le—"

"Thank you," England interrupted.

"Huh?"

"For the oar. And the boat help," England was avoiding Alfred's eyes, staring at his boat. His eyes flicked up to Alfred and he held out his hand. "Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

Alfred took Arthur's hand and grinned. This is why he loved running. Never know the people you'll meet.


	3. Elevator

Alfred slammed the car door, enjoying the way the small car rocked. Arthur got out, rolling his eyes.

"Don't be a child," he snapped, shutting his own door with equal force.

Alfred glared at the shorter blond. He opened his door again and slammed it once again. Arthur locked the car and headed toward the building, head down. Alfred ran after, face burning. "Wait for me," he growled, passing Arthur and throwing the doors to the office open.

Arthur caught up to Alfred and grabbed his elbow, looking around at the various workers milling around. "Control yourself, will you?" Arthur hissed.

Alfred yanked his arm out of Arthur's grasp, walking swiftly toward the elevators. Arthur looked around, smiling awkwardly at the people watching the scene before following. Alfred stepped into an empty elevator, not bothering to stop the doors as they slid shut. Arthur managed to slip into the small space before they shut completely.

Alfred stared at the button panel.

"Are you going to ask which floor we're going to," Arthur snapped, "Or are you going to stand there like at utter idiot?"

Alfred didn't answer. He ran his hands over all of the buttons, lighting them all up. Arthur let out an angry laugh.

"Oh, real mature, Alfred. I didn't want to get there on time, either!" The elevator started ascending.

"Shut up, will you?" Alfred looked up at the ceiling. "For the love of God, _shut up_."

The elevator shuddered to a halt. Alfred glared at the button panel, pressing the 'Open Doors' button. The elevator refused to react.

"Now look what you've done!" Arthur snapped, pushing the taller blond out of the way. He began to press buttons at random, hoping for some sort of movement of the box they were in.

"It's always my fault, isn't it?" Alfred snapped, crossing his arms.

Arthur hunched his shoulders. "In this case, it _is_ your fault, you hamburger-loving, freckled—"

"Oh, fuck you!" Alfred cut in, throwing his hands in the air like he was done with the topic. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!"

"Is that all you can say?" Arthur yelled, whirling on his companion. "I think you're bloody illiterate sometimes! Like a big, stupid ape!"

Alfred loomed over Arthur, though he was only a couple of inches taller. Arthur stood straighter, looking Alfred in the eye. "You're just an insecure little man who tries to feel big by being sarcastic and talking down to me."

Arthur laughed. "Please. You would hardly know if I was talking down to you. You're a boy, Alfred. A child."

Alfred took a breath. "Is that why you said no?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, backing away from Alfred. "Still?"

"Who says 'no,' Arthur?" Alfred asked, a note of desperation slipping in to his tone. "We've been dating and you moved in and you said 'no.'" Alfred backed up against a wall, sinking down. "Fuck this stupid elevator," he yelled, slamming his fist onto the floor.

"You know why I did," Arthur snapped, though with much less fire than before.

"I'm not going to end up like Francis did!" Alfred shouted, shaking his head. "Something good in your life isn't going to lead to something bad! Fuck," Alfred tore his glasses from his face, massaging his eyes. "You love me, isn't that enough?"

Arthur uncrossed his arms and sighed. He walked over to Alfred and sat down, allowing the taller man to wrap his arms around his shoulders. Arthur petted Alfred's hair. "Oh, shush," he soothed.

"This stupid elevator," Alfred sobbed.

* * *

 **More from Tumblr.**

 **Prompt by Tumblr user:** imagineyourotp. **Prompt:** Imagine your OTP stuck in an elevator after they've had a fight.


	4. Oh, No, Alfred Was Hot

Oh, no, Alfred was _hot_.

Arthur scowled at the boy, hoping, praying that he wasn't coming to sit by him. He was. Alfred sat down, lunch tray piled with everything and anything unhealthy. And he grinned, and his mouth was still full of metal.

Arthur latched on to that.

"Snaggletooth," Arthur greeted.

"I see you're still a douche," Alfred smiled, opening a pudding cup. "Miss me over the summer? I missed you. I had this punching bag, right, and every time I smacked it in the face, I thought about you!" Alfred licked the lid of the pudding cup.

How had one boy grown so much? He was only a sophomore, for Pete's sake. But there he was, wearing an "I Want to Believe" shirt underneath the leather jacket, teeth covered in metal, face clear of acne. God, his muscles.

Arthur's hand tightened on his water bottle.

"Do you happen to live down by Waterson Street? I think I stumbled onto one of your family reunions—perhaps you've heard of Underland's pig farm?"

Alfred's lip curled, but he winked good-naturedly. The wink made Arthur want to thrash around for no reason.

"I see you've been taking steroids," Arthur snapped later during gym. He had tried to get fit over the summer, but the appeal of just _not_ was so much greater. "Inject in the arm or the arse?"

Alfred guffawed, finishing his ten push-ups. "Arthur, are you jealous? I've been working on these babies all fucking summer, it's okay. Revel."

Arthur laughed, snorting through his nose. He kicked Alfred's arm, the younger boy still lying down on the floor. Alfred rolled over onto his back, cursing happily at Arthur. Arthur continued to kick him until the teacher called them away into teams.

Arthur skipped the showers; he didn't think he could quite handle Alfred in the nude, yet. He changed, pulling off his t-shirt and then regretting it when he felt a looming presence behind him. Antonio slapped him on the back, smile easy and detached.

"Arthur!" He greeted, "I see your mother still hasn't bought you a training bra. That's okay."

Antonio attempted to slap Arthur's back again, but the boy elbowed him away. Arthur glared and crossed his arms, sneering. "Are you upset your little terrier came to _me_ for his fix? That's okay, I'm sure you'll still give him free blowjobs."

Antonio gave him another smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Do you want to die?"

Arthur's eyebrow twitched upwards.

Just then, Alfred chose to wander onto the scene. He walked up to Arthur, hair dripping wet and glasses foggy, completely ignoring Antonio's clenched fists. "Wait, were you saying that my family are all pigs earlier?"

The fire in Antonio's eyes died, and he switched his attention to Alfred. " _Hola_. Are you new? You should try out for the football team."

Alfred grinned. "Oh! Ho- _lah_! Mi-amo est _Al_ - _fred_."

Honestly, Arthur should have known Antonio's punch was coming. Alfred rolled with the punch, smashing into Arthur and using him for support. Antonio shook his hand, the smile back as he observed the two of them react.

"Try out for football, yeah, _amigo_?"

Alfred's nose was bleeding.

Arthur fucking hated the football games. He hated the cold, the yelling, the cheerleaders. But Alfred wore those fucking _tight_ pants and it was almost worth it to see those fucked up teeth encased in metal.

"Arthur," Alfred bellowed, waving, "Did you get me the new issue of 'Young—'" He was promptly tackled by the opposing team.

Arthur snorted and shoved another handful of popcorn into his mouth. Their team was losing—they were always losing—but it was good fun watching Alfred get tackled up and down the field.

After the game, Alfred jogged up to Arthur. He was disgusting, sweaty, covered in grass and, uh, blood. He held out his hands, eyes lit up like the Fourth of July.

"Gimme, gimme."

Arthur tossed him a paper bag, smirking at Alfred eagerness. The boy pulled out the latest issue of 'Young Avengers' and let out a whoop. He sat down in the middle of the field, flipping through the pages and ignoring the crowd of players and spectators around him.

"How's Billy?" Alfred asked, ripping his eyes away for a precious moment.

"Gay."

Alfred nodded. "Like you."

"Fuck off," Arthur grumbled, sitting down next to Alfred. "You're gay."

Alfred grunted. Arthur snorted and watched him read, flipping off whoever complained around them. It was cold, and Arthur wondered if the fall made Alfred's braces hurt more than normal. Alfred stole his Coke and chugged it.

* * *

 **From anonymous Tumblr prompt:** Nerd!alfred and punk!athur I adore it but never see it enough. Alfred with a lisp and braces and Arthur secretly finding adorable. I need this in my life or my heart will shrivel and die


	5. Messages in Bottles (W GerIta)

**Transcriber's Note: Found on Cape Cod, MA.**

 _Dear So-and-So,_

 _Francis has stopped writing. I suppose it's just you and me now._

 _Peter is becoming more and more rebellious to enlist, and what can I tell him? His home—at least what he insists is his home. I tell him he's American; he cites his British accent—is in danger. All of his friends have already been shipped overseas, and he's rearing to go. I found a bag packed. I wonder when he will leave, note on the kitchen counter._

 _He's all I have left now. Alfred would have called me sentimental._

 _Yours,_

 _Arthur Kirkland_

 ** _..._**

 _Dear So-and-So,_

 _That bloody canary is back. I don't see the point of releasing it if it just flies back and taps on my window. Peter says we should put it back in the cage, but I don't see the point._ _I_ _never spoke to it; must be terribly lonely with no one to talk to. That's the singing I wake up to now, unfortunately._

 _Francis claims everything is right as rain. Meanwhile, the news reports say differently. His letters have gotten shorter, and the paper is of awful quality. Alfred used to "tell me straight," through some connection or another. Now, it's all guesswork._

 _Always and forever yours,_

 _Arthur Kirkland_

 ** _..._**

 _Dear So-And-So,_

 _There was some rubbish about that Italian lad down the street. He and Alfred would talk quite frequently, I assume about me and Ludwig. I didn't hear much of what happened—that was usually Alfred—but something about rumors of homosexual activities._

 _You understand the comedy._

 _First Ludwig shipped off to jail, now Feliciano a pariah. The poor boy is distraught!—his brother disappeared off to Spain, Ludwig gone._

 _Peter has stopped giving him flowers when his friend teased him. Feliciano says he understands._

 _Yours,_

 _A.K._

 ** _..._**

 _Dear So-and-So,_

 _Alfred stopped writing._

 _Arthur_

 ** _..._**

 _Dear So-and-So,_

 _Peter's gone, although the fool didn't leave a note. Mother would have been proud but I know he's going to get himself killed. That nice girl who he used to ride with asked if he was gone. She looked sorely disappointed and fairly angry._

 _I hope he likes what he sees. I suppose he'll be sent to the Pacific Theatre, as most of the recruits are. He probably won't write._

 _He always thought too much with his heart. They're all leaving, listening to that blasted organ._

 _Yours,_

 _Arthur Kirkland_

 ** _..._**

 _Dear So-and-So,_

 _Feliciano and his friend brought over flowers. The only ones in the whole neighborhood to notice what was right under their noses. I made them tea and Feliciano talked too cheerfully about the canary in the corner of the room._

 _Ludwig said he was sorry when they left._

 _Feliciano brought over a pie the next day. It was good. Feliciano can be quite good at conversation when he needs to be. It was mainly about silly things—about work, the mail—but it helped immensely._

 _He invited me to one of "those" clubs, where I had met Alfred. I politely declined._

 _Sitting here, writing this, perhaps I should have gone._

 _Yours, alone,_

 _Arthur Kirkland_

 ** _..._**

 _Dear So-and-So,_

 _Finally, Peter wrote to me, stationed in Hawaii, of all places. At least it's somewhere relatively safe. I showed the letter to his girl friend, and to my surprise, found she had received one from him, as well. I would have never dreamed he had the patience to sit down and write one letter, let alone two._

 _I've let the canary back in. It's better than the silence. I can't bear to play the radio, so the canary keeps me company. Such a sorry little thing; I wish it would fly away. A bird trapped in-doors doesn't seem right. I can't even begin to wonder how I take care of it._

 _It was Alfred's, for Pete's Sake._

 _Yours, exasperated,_

 _Arthur Kirkland_

 ** _..._**

 _Dear So-and-So,_

 _I can't even go near Alfred's room. I tried, once, but it's_

 _I've locked the door, so Peter can't go poking around where he shouldn't._

 _Bloody fool. And now I have this damned canary I don't know what to do with. He'll return it to his place when he gets back. What a fool. Now it's here, singing, and it doesn't even have anyone to sing back to it._

 _Yours,_

 _Arthur_


	6. Space Oddity

Major Alfred Jones sat in his spaceship, with the world watching him. Arthur Kirkland sat in the cramped, tiny Ground Control, eyes glued on the small computer screen which was the only visual connection to the astronaut he and his colleagues had.

Unconsciously, Arthur's eyes flicked up to Alfred's hair on the screen, thinking that the blurry pixels lived nothing up to the boy's actual wheat colored locks.

Nearby, Francis Bonnefoy was typing rapidly on a computer somewhere to Arthur's right. Arthur heard him curse and turned to look at the Frenchman. "What is it? Tell me one of the interns didn't screw up a calculation last night. They were only supposed to go over for their training." Arthur turned to the back of Ground Control, preparing to rage at the line of interns who stood against the wall.

" _Non_ , I am just nervous something is screwed up…" Francis clicked his tongue, fingers rapidly flying across the board. "That…" He sat back, letting out a strained breath through his teeth.

Arthur turned back to the row of computers, eyes locking onto Alfred. "Even if you did, he knows what to do. Three years for preparing for this day—in any way it could go wrong." Arthur was unaware of Francis' look. "He won't mess up."

Arthur pulled up a small microphone, clicking the button at the base. He saw Alfred on the screen straighten, eagerly awaiting someone to instruct him it was time to launch. Arthur grinned. "Ground Control to Major Jones."

Alfred responded on the screen, talking into his own microphone, "Hey, Artie! You aren't nervous for me, are you? Trust me; this ol' tin can get me up!" The bright voice was crackling, but it was the same voice that Arthur loved none the less.

Arthur let out an impatient sigh, though he felt himself smiling. "I told you: you respond with Ground Control!" He watched Alfred on the screen through his arms in the air. "Anyways, don't forget to take your protein pills—and put your helmet on. You're going up in one minute."

Arthur watched as Alfred put his helmet on, and then looked up to the numerous screens on the far wall. The center monitor had the launch station, to show how the rocket looked still in its hanger. Several screens showed the surrounding air space where the rocket would be flying. The ones around the edges had the countdown in large green numbers. Arthur turned back to the microphone.

"Ground Control to Major Jones, the final countdown is starting." On the screen, Alfred quickly reached out to flip numerous switches. "The engines are on." Alfred and Arthur checked their various screens. "Checked the ignition… And Alfred," Alfred on screen looked at the camera, "May God's love be with you."

 _Ten._

 _Nine._

 _Eight._

 _Seven._

 _Six._

 _Five._

 _Four._

 _Three._

 _Two._

 _One._

 _Liftoff._

 ** _…_**

It took Arthur three days of fighting with the press and various world leaders to finally make it back to Ground Control. He had felt awful about leaving Alfred up in the heavens without talking to him, but the world was abuzz with the successful launch. In fact, it had gone so far that several clothes brands had been attacking Arthur throughout the past seventy-two hours, trying to get Alfred to sign as a sponsor for various dress shirts.

When Arthur finally grabbed the microphone to Alfred, he almost cried out through the airwaves in relief. It was a few minutes before Alfred touched down on the distant moon. Above, the monitors were filled with images from distant stars and the belt of the Milky Way Galaxy.

"Ground Control to Major Jones." Arthur waited as the sound traveled up to Alfred, who jerked on the screen in response. "God, Alfred, you're a cut above the rest. Everyone wants to know whose shirts you've been wearing."

Alfred tried to respond, but only a crackle made in through before it was time for him to steer the spacecraft onto the surface of the moon and land. Arthur watched as Alfred maneuvered his craft, turning knobs and multitasking so skillfully that Arthur admired him.

Francis sat next to Arthur and watched along with him, occasionally typing something into his computer. Arthur watched with a strained excitement as he landed on the surface.

Arthur grinned into the microphone. "Alright, Major Jones, now for the hard part. Ready to leave your ship… If you dare?" Francis shot Arthur a look, but he ignored it. He was allowed those comments; he had hardly seen Alfred, after all.

Alfred prepared for his spacewalk, adoring layer after layer of clothing. Arthur watched as the man he knew slowly disappeared under bulky equipment. Finally, Alfred's sweet voice came buzzing out the microphone like a swarm of bees.

"Major Jones to Ground Control, I'm stepping through the door," Alfred said, heading out of his small craft.

Francis and Arthur almost lost sight of Alfred. There could only be so many external cameras placed on Alfred's craft, so the man soon disappeared beyond the cameras' ranges. Arthur's eyes were glued to Alfred's heart monitor, watching as his heartbeat began to speed up.

"Major Jones, everything alright?" Arthur asked when his panic became too much to bear. The few seconds it took for the sound to travel was killing Arthur. The few it took for Alfred to respond were agonizing.

"Arthur, this is incredible," Alfred breathed, causing a storm of static to accompany his voice. "It's like swimming, the same kind of weightlessness. And the stars… Arthur, you should see the stars. It's all so… So…" The transmission trailed off.

"Peculiar?" Arthur suggested, smile tugging at his mouth.

"Yeah… Peculiar…" Alfred sighed static into his microphone.

 **…**

Francis had taken over for Arthur, who had almost been falling asleep at his station. He still had interviews for the press tomorrow, and Francis had thought it best to send the poor man home for the night. Alfred had returned to orbit around the moon, and was preparing for his return trip.

Francis was just beginning to review the data the spaceship had sent back when Alfred began to talk. "How far away am I from home?" He asked.

Francis looked at the monitors. Alfred was looking out one of the windows, towards Earth. He had an odd smile on his face. Francis set aside his computer, focusing in on the microphone. "Over two hundred thousand miles. You know this, Major Jones," Francis said slowly.

"It's weird…" There was a long break in the transmission, "I don't feel like I'm moving. Earth's getting smaller and smaller, but I don't feel affected at all. The world is so small, Francis. It's so beautiful. It doesn't matter if I come back."

Francis blinked, mind racing. "Major Jones," he began to type furiously at his computer, checking Alfred's position. "I need you to tell me your current position. Has your spaceship malfunctioned?" Alfred had reported electrical glitches, and had cracked open the control panel to fix it. "Ground Control to Major Jones," Francis cut it, sharp. "Please come in."

There was a painful silence.

"I think… I think my spaceship knows where she's going, Francis."

Francis checked and double checked the information that was pouring into his computer. "No… No! Alfr—Major Jones you need to get that thing _turned around_!" Francis gave a frustrated swipe at his computer, looking back up at Alfred on the numerous screens. "Damn it, Alfred!" Francis broke.

Alfred was still looking out his window. "Can… Can you do me a favor? Can you tell Arthur that I love him?" There was a static filled laugh. "He knows…"

 **…**

Arthur flew into Ground Control, scattering interns like a flock of birds. "What do you mean?" He yelled at Francis, storming up to him. "Where is he bloody going?!"

Francis opened his mouth to respond, but Arthur pushed by him. He pushed a chair out of the way, crouching in front of the microphone. He pressed the button, fear flowing through him when there was no static from the speaker.

"Ground Control to Major Jones!" Arthur said, surprised he wasn't screaming. "Your circuit's dead—there's something wrong." No response, though a trickle of static. "Can you hear me, Major Jones?"

More static.

"Can you hear me, Major Jones?" Arthur could hear his voice becoming more desperate. "Can you hear me, Major Jones?" He was yelling, "Can you hear—" He realized Alfred was talking from the other end, and he hadn't heard the beginning.

"… Here, floating 'round my tin can," Alfred let out that laugh that Arthur loved. "I'm so far away from the moon, Arthur. And the Earth…" A silence that made Arthur's heart hurt. "It's still so blue. There's nothing I can do."

All sound from the microphone cut off.

Arthur started down at the metal.

"Alfred?"

The name was blasted into space, missing the man it was meant for. The sound went tumbling through darkness, forever, forever…


	7. Ice Skating

It reminded Alfred of when he had first tried to learn how to skate. He just couldn't understand the mechanics behind what he was doing. Again and again he would fall. Of course, the difference was that Alfred had eventually learned how to skate; he had no idea what was going on with Arthur.

Nothing was _wrong_. That was what pissed Alfred off so much. Nothing was different. Arthur still came home, still grumbled and made some tea, still sat down not in his arm chair, but on the ottoman.

They still had sex every Tuesday and Saturday. They still went out for ice cream or coffee. Arthur still ignored conversations about having kids, and Alfred ignored Arthur's suggestion for a better paying job.

Something was missing, though. It was like before you figured out how to push your skate a certain way to glide across the ice. Alfred was trying to awkwardly walk across the rink.

And he just kept _falling_.

"Well _maybe_ if someone got a _real_ job instead of mooning about that bloody bastard video game store all day, we could get a—" Arthur broke off, looking away from Alfred for a moment before returning full force. "A _child_."

"No, Arthur," Alfred hissed, glaring down at Arthur. "It wouldn't matter if I got a 'real job,' there would always be something that would be wrong. You're too busy, work, money, time. There's never a right time—"

Arthur laughed. "That's funny, because when we first met, you said you were glad you were gay so you wouldn't have to worry about children. How you've changed your tune."

Alfred took off his glasses, running a hand over his face and through his hair. "We got together in _college_ , Artie—"

"Don't call me—"

Alfred yelled over him. "We got together in _college_ , Arthur Kirkland! I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to want kids after seven years." He moved away and began to pace, stumbling over furniture he didn't see.

Arthur crossed his arms. "You still work in a fucking _game store_ —"

"What the _fuck_ does that have to do with anything?" Alfred shouted, whirling toward Arthur. "I have _fun_ there. I like working there! That's more than you can say. Half the time you come home and you're so—so—" Alfred stumbled over the ottoman and kicked it away, snarling.

Alfred heard more than saw Arthur walk away. Jamming the glasses back on his face, Alfred followed Arthur to the front door. The shorter man yanked open the door, striding with a purpose toward his car.

"Where are you going?" Alfred called from the doorway.

Arthur got into his car.

"Where are you going?!" Alfred yelled, watching the vehicle screech out of the driveway and down the street.

Alfred slammed the door shut, watching in satisfaction at the window nearby rattled. He repeated the action twice, each time harder than the last. He panted, resting his head against the cool wood.

The rest of the evening was spent in sulking silence. Usually, when Alfred had the house to himself, he would blast music or stay up late playing video games. Tonight, he just watched TV and ran his fingers over the spines of Arthur's books.

Always the same fight. Not the same words—sometimes it was about Alfred leaving his dirty clothes on the ground, or Arthur spending too much time at work—but always the same fight.

Alfred stared up at the ceiling, enjoying the empty bed.

Why were they fighting? Nothing had changed.

Alfred rolled onto his side, toward his side of the bed. The nightstand was covered in various artifacts: comic books, half read paperbacks, a glasses case. The one thing that stood out from the clutter was a picture of Arthur.

It was an old college photo. Alfred had caught Arthur smiling and turning around. It was blurred, but the color from the autumn leaves and Arthur's happy expression made up for the fact. Every time Alfred had looked at the picture—which had been often when Arthur had started his business trips—it would make him smile.

Alfred gazed at the picture. No warm, happy memories came flooding forth. He slowly reached out and placed the frame face down.

And he just kept _falling_.


	8. Expensive Maps (Fem Us)

Amelia wished it was raining. The sun was shining, and the wind blew dust into her eyes, and the blood looked darker against the pale white of the dirt. Nearby, the women were still dragging their screaming children away from the town, and Ivan was looking at her.

A gun felt good in her hands. Awkward, heavy, but good. It was still pointing at the spot that had been between Arthur's eyes.

He had been her world. He had humored her, argued with her, followed her about the house and, admittedly, annoyed her. But he had seen the world, been to India and Africa and distance places on maps Amelia's father couldn't afford.

And a colonel, her father praised.

The town was a mess. Before all of—she still couldn't look at the body, just the blood—this, it had been beautiful. Amelia's family, the reputable ones, too, hadn't been involved with the weapons. Sure, turned a blind eye to it, but had they assisted?

 _Go to bed, Amelia._

 _We're talking, Amelia, be a good girl and go get something for our guests._

 _Honey, it's not interesting, anyways._

Amelia's eyebrows furrowed, and she finally allowed her eyes to flick to Arthur's body. He had fallen backwards. If there wasn't a bullet in his head, he probably would have complained of the dirt on his pristine uniform. She used to get a thrill when he walked through the door, a military man.

 _Your town is practically crawling with rebels._

Seemed like it, now. Amelia lowered the gun, shaking her head. The British were in their orderly lines, but the rebels—Americans were hiding, tossing ammo as they ran between the burning buildings. Most of the women had escaped into the nearby fields.

Ivan shifted, and Amelia looked at him.

Arthur had met him, once. He had held her around the waist, but she hated when he did that around company. Ivan had been discussing something with her father, but he seemed amused by the British colonel. They had discussed things—taxes Amelia had heard about, distantly—Arthur's arm tightening around her.

"Are you going to fight?"

Ivan looked from Arthur to her.

Amelia felt her throat tighten, but her words were savage. "Are you going to _fight_ or just _stand_ there?"

"Careful, little girl—"

The gun swung up once again, the blade pressed against Ivan's throat.

"I killed him." She had killed _him_.

What had she been thinking? She knew. Knew nothing good could come from a nation that burned down towns after they taxed everything flammable. Amelia wasn't British. When the soldiers filtered through to meet with Arthur, she hadn't understood their banter, the jokes.

 _Tomorrow, down by that tavern—yes, the Horse Head, they'll be a man waiting to take you to one of the forts. Yes, a British one, Amelia, please don't be dense. Pack only things you need, and do not tell anyone._

She needed everything. Her father's house, her room, the carriage that had been in the family for years. The boy who milked the cow, the dog that stole pies from windows, the bird that woke her up every morning as soon as the sun rose. How do you explain that to someone who was shipped over here to ensnare the colony's loyalty?

Amelia had been given a gun.

Arthur had told her once he was usually at the back. How he knew where the back was baffled her, but he had shown up in front of her, gun held at a group of girls and Ivan approaching.

 _What are you doing with that—Amelia?_

Amelia didn't know much about guns. Ivan had taught her quickly the night before, in between ordering the townspeople from place to place, weapons to be unearthed and distributed. How to pour the gunpowder, jam the bullet down, set the charge. He had warned her about misfires, wet gunpowder.

Amelia wished it was raining.

Ivan pushed the gun away, and she let it fall. He shrugged and hefted his own gun, stepping over Arthur's body and back towards the fray.

What was she supposed to do now? Her eyes returned to Arthur. The blood from his bullet wound was starting to thicken in the heat. His eyes were glassy and his mouth was parted. He had pointed a gun at children. He had set fire to the church.

Slowly, carefully, Amelia opened a packet of gunpowder.


	9. A Good Guy (W FrUk)

In chick flicks, there was always that 'nice guy.' The love interests have a big fight, and the girl always finds some other guy for six months or a year, and then she's back in the original guy's arms. Alfred never dwelled on this fact because he usually only saw one chick flick a year.

Yet, here he was, laying on his couch and binge watching romantic movies. This had more to do with the fact that he had lost the remote than any comfort the movies gave.

Something the movies never told you: being the nice guy fucking hurts. It hurts to smile and nod, knowing deep down that the person you loved belonged with someone else. It hurts to give the person you love a hug before they run into the original guy's arms.

Alfred couldn't even blame Arthur.

"I'm not looking for anything serious."

Alfred glanced over his menu, feeling his mouth twitch into a smile. "We're only on our first date! I didn't even get to the proposal part yet."

Arthur looked away, amused and annoyed. "My… My other boyfriend was…" He reached up to rub his forehead, looking at the distance. "He was intense, and I'm honestly not looking for that level of… Of anything." A shaky breath, then Arthur met Alfred's eyes. "I hope you understand."

Alfred laughed. God, how he had loved Arthur. Everything about the man fascinated Alfred. The obscure British teacher, who tried so hard to be professional and was heart wrenchingly embarrassed when his temper got the better of him.

"A son?" Alfred repeated, buying time and taking another lick of his ice cream cone. "That's…"

Arthur jabbed his spoon angrily into his sundae. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner." He didn't sound sorry at all. "It's just a hard subject to broach. Peter… Doesn't take well to…" Arthur used his spoon to circle Alfred. "He's been awfully cranky since his mother… And Francis…" He ate a spoonful of ice cream, letting out a breath through his nose.

"Can I meet him?" Alfred asked, grinning at the expression on Arthur's face.

July rolled around, Peter and Alfred running around Arthur's yard with sparklers. Arthur had been unusually quiet, preferring to sit and watch rather than participate. The Englishman was practically gloomy, smoking more than usual.

"Hey, Peter, what's up with your dad?" Alfred asked, lighting a new sparkler.

The boy shrugged, squinting in the dark to watch Alfred fumble with the lighter. "Dunno'. Probably something to do with Francis. He picked me up from school the other day and talked to Dad for a while."

Francis. The name was like a phantom that lurked around Arthur's home. Empty picture frames, letters crammed into shoeboxes and hidden under the stairs. Always circling and waiting to hijack conversation. Arthur couldn't even speak about his ex. The little Alfred gathered had been from Peter, and one evening when Arthur had gotten plastered.

Alfred still remembered when he first met Francis. It was a Sunday, and he was watching the football game and explaining the rules to Peter. Arthur was in the kitchen, attempting to cook something from the recipe book Alfred had gotten him. The doorbell rang, and Alfred hopped up to answer it.

The man was wearing a suit, hands in his pockets and dark blond hair cascading around his shoulders. He even had a carefully constructed, rugged stubble. Alfred, wearing an old t-shirt and paint splattered jeans, felt foolish. He knew who this was.

"Is Arthur here?" Francis asked, smile confident and easy.

Alfred had heard a story once about three towns. They all lived near a giant dam that was old and poorly made. The news came that the dam was going to collapsed any day. The first town, three miles away from the dam, was in a panic. The second town, two miles away from the dam, was in an uproar. The third town, a mile away, was completely unconcerned; they refused to admit that they were in impending danger.

Alfred was that third town.

"I should have seen this coming," Alfred whispered, more to himself than Arthur. He stood, taking off his glasses and massaging his eyes. "When? During the business trip?"

Arthur was glaring at the table, eyes glassy. "Last weekend."

"Last…" Alfred laughed softly, running a hand through his hair.

Arthur took a deep breath. "I don't know what you want me to do. Say I'm bloody sorry? Because I am. I'm really fucking sorry." He shook his head, eyes still glued to the table. "Francis is…"

Alfred shook his head. "No, I understand. You have no idea what it was like. To see you two together. He has something I don't." He reluctantly sat back down at the table, reaching out to take Arthur's hand. "I don't know what that is—maybe his sex appeal, or his suits, or maybe just because he pisses you off better than I do."

Arthur's eyes met Alfred. He opened his mouth but no words came out for a few minutes. "Alfred, I'm the one at fault here."

"No, Arthur," Alfred sighed, squeezing his hand. "You can't help who you love." His throat felt tight, and he had to swallow a couple of times before continuing. "And you love Francis."

Alfred gazed at the TV screen, hand groping aimlessly for the remote. Romance movies always had a happy ending, but not for that nice guy. He's swept off the screen like he was never there to begin with. The girl never talks about him again, the kids forget, too. They never show the nice guy sitting at his house, binge watching bad movies.

Arthur had never loved Alfred—never as much as he had loved Francis. Alfred had gotten a piece of that love, cherished it, worked with what Arthur gave him. And it wasn't fair and it hurt. But he couldn't keep Arthur away from Francis, as much as he had wanted to.

You can't help who you love. Alfred loved Arthur.


	10. American Kinks on an Island

Alfred was utterly fascinated. Logically, he had known that other countries had militaries; _of course_ they did. However, it was only his first week in England, so you can't blame him. Alfred worked at a little restaurant right down the street from an airport, and the first thing soldiers want when they get home is some good food.

And so they came into The Family Diner—not _a_ family diner, _the_ family diner—wearing their uniforms; Alfred absolutely loved it. A returning Vet would come into the diner, their spouse on one arm, kids bright-eyed and grinning, wanting nothing more than to share a meal as a _family_.

The man who stood in front of Alfred today had no family. He stood, back straight and hat held under one arm. The uniform was sharp: a black suit, end of the sleeves striped in gold, and medals adorning the front. It was the first of its kind Alfred had seen.

"Welcome to The Family Diner," Alfred greeted, eyes roaming over the uniform with interest. "Any preference in seating for your meal today?"

The soldier cleared his throat, and Alfred finally made eye contact. The soldier raised an eyebrow.

"An American, of course I'd be stuck with an American. Near a window, please."

Alfred grinned, grabbing the man a menu. "Will anyone be joining you today? Right this way—or will you be dining alone?"

"Alone."

"Ah, that's too bad."

The man took his seat, opening the menu Alfred offered. Alfred remained hovering. "I'm Alfred, I'll be your server today. Would you like a drink to start out with? And if you don't mind me asking, what branch of the military are you in?"

The man sighed and shut the menu. "Americans." Despite the obvious annoyance in his voice, a smile was flickering across the soldier's face. "Some Darjeeling tea, if you have any." Alfred had no idea what that was. "And I'm in the Navy."

Alfred, despite himself, took a seat across from the man. "Really? That's a really spiffy—" Spiffy, really? "—Outfit, do you wear that on the boat or…? Do people call you captain?"

The man's faint humor disappeared, and he observed Alfred with a wary curiosity. "We don't usually wear this, no. I had to go to a silly ball thing, and it required more formal dress. I'm a vice admiral."

Alfred nodded, eye once again flicking over the medals. "Alright, so it would be Admiral…?"

A second passed, but the man answered. "Admiral Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

Alfred grinned. "Alright, Admiral Kirkland Arthur Kirkland, I'll be right back with your tea." He stood, heading toward the kitchen.

As Alfred entered the kitchen, he was completely stumped. "Hey, what the hell is Farjeelin tea? Some guy was asking for it, because he couldn't order Earl Grey like every other British dude who walks into this place."

Francis, a man who was probably the only reason the food tasted decent, looking around from the grill and smirked. "Darjeeling? It's the little blue box, you…" He descended into playful French teasing, none of which Alfred could understand.

Alfred quickly made two cups of tea, yelling over his shoulder to Francis that he was taking his break, and to get some other poor sap to cover his tables, it wasn't that busy anyways. He returned, sitting back down across from Arthur.

"Ah, you sat back down," Arthur murmured, taking a cautious sip of his tea. His eyes widened, and Alfred felt a flush of pride. He may be no Englishman, but his tea making skills were well honed.

Arthur caught Alfred's gaze and quickly broke it. "Tell me, Alfred, do you flirt with every military personnel that walks in here?"

Alfred took a sip of his tea, mind racing. "What? I just wanted to talk about the Navy, and like, your uniform. Who's flirting? Could it be, Admiral Kirkland Arthur Kirkland, that _you're_ flirting with _me_?"

Arthur, the serious vice admiral, refused to make eye contact again, focusing on his tea like it was the whole world. Alfred wasn't sure if he was flirting; Arthur did look stunning in that uniform of his, his blond hair contrasting nicely with the black of his suit, the well-fitting—

"But what is living on a boat like?" Alfred asked, leaning forward and resting his chin in his hand.

Arthur considered the question. "Terrifying if you can't swim."

"What?" Alfred tried to control his face, he really did, but a grin spread across it, and then he was laughing, nearly spilling his tea. "Who goes into the Navy if they can't swim?" He finally choked out, removing his glasses to wipe away tears.

"Someone very brave," Arthur said quietly, watching Alfred like he was a dog chasing its own tail and smirking.

"You're very funny, Admiral Kirkland Arthur Kirkland."

Arthur shrugged. "And you make crappy tea, Alfred."


	11. Timezones and Snow and Kisses

"Time zones are fuckin' awful…" Alfred yawned, adjusting his webcam. "You're lucky I love you so much, or I'd still be sleeping. But I'm here," Alfred rolled onto his back, the camera getting a nice shot of his abs, "With you, because I love you."

Arthur who was out of the camera's angle, called out, "Well, I'm not _making_ you be here. You can go—"

"Oh, don't be like that," Alfred yawned again, rolling over onto his stomach. "Come on, show me what you're wearing!" He bounced on his bed, trying to keep his voice down.

Arthur slowly came into the shot, adjusting his tie. Alfred's favorite suit on him, the dark green one, with the adorable bowtie that made Alfred want to coo. Arthur had even attempted to comb his hair into submission.

Alfred whistled. "Damn, son."

Arthur messed with his suit, steadily avoiding looking at the screen. "I figured they'd want me to appear… _Presentable_ , so I found this at the back of my closet and I just figured…" Arthur cleared his throat.

Alfred pressed his face against his computer screen. "You look great. You're totally gonna' ace this interview, don't worry. And then," Alfred moved back and wiggled his fingers. "You can come visit me!"

Arthur laughed faintly, smacking his screen affectionately. "Alright, go back to bed. I'll text you how it goes."

"Fingers crossed!" Alfred yelled as Arthur shut the screen.

 **…**

Arthur hadn't texted. Alfred checked every fifteen minutes during class. There was a solemn and eerie silence from his phone; it was usually filled with witty sayings and scolding from Arthur.

Alfred was kept late at work, and there was still no freaking response from Arthur. During breaks, Alfred called, wanting desperately to hear how everything went. And to make sure Arthur was okay.

Finally, _finally_ , Alfred went home. He stumbled into his room, and booted up his computer. He requested to chat with Arthur. There was a tense moment when Alfred was sure Arthur was going to decline, but Arthur's face eventually popped up onto Alfred's screen.

Only the light from Arthur's computer illuminated him.

"Arthur, did you—"

"It snowed here, today."

Alfred furrowed his eyebrows. "Really? My phone said—"

"You would think," Arthur reached up and took a breath from a cigarette, "People would drive a little safer."

"I thought you stopped smoking…" Alfred took off his glasses, laying on his stomach and getting closer to the screen. "Arthur, what happened? Did you get it?"

"Stupid fucking… I asked Francis to give me a ride. Because it was supposed to be cold." Arthur took another drag on his cigarette. "He… The stupid, stupid frog… He crashed." Arthur's voice broke in the middle of the last word. "Right after he dropped me off."

Alfred had no idea what to say. "Oh…"

Arthur rubbed his eyes, flicking away his cigarette. He rested his head on his laptop's keyboard, shoulders shaking.

Alfred pressed his forehead against the screen, wanting to punch something. "Oh, god, Arthur, I'm so sorry. Is he okay? Arthur?" Alfred let out a pained groan from the back of his throat. "I wish I was there. I'm so sorry."

At a total loss, Alfred pressed his lips against the screen.

"What are you doing?"

Alfred pulled away from the screen, attempting a cheery smile. "Kissing you?" He pressed his lips against the warm screen again.

"You're an idiot," Arthur half laughed, half sobbed. He pressed his own lips against the screen.

It may have been through a screen, and it may have been happening a thousand miles apart, but it was a wonderful first kiss.


	12. Non-Player Character

Well, it certainly wasn't what they usually caught. This one looked foreign, too blue and black for the forests Alfred and his gang traversed. Only two legs and whiskers. Huh.

"Do they usually have whiskers?" Alfred said, putting his foot on the dragon's throat and tilting its head. "All these weird fur-like things?"

Ludwig didn't respond, too busy retying the dragon's legs. Feliciano—NPC who Ludwig let tag around—was braiding the dragon's mane. Some of the others were wandering around, checking their supplies in the wagon. Well, then, fuck this.

"Don't bother tying it up," Alfred commanded, kicking the beast's head away. It growled, and Alfred let out a mock roar, grinning at the surrounding snickers. "Kill it. It'd take too long to haul around, anyways. Same ol', same ol'. Teeth, eyes—"

"But, Alfred," Feliciano stood, carefully stepping around the broken wings, "We never see anything like him! I bet your Mage friend would be really, really interested in drawing him or studying him. Remember the unicorn?"

Oh, yes, the unicorn Alfred had to haul around for over a had explained that it would take another year for the fucking thing to grow a horn, and he didn't have the resources to care for it. So, Alfred had agreed to let the thing tag along. It ate too much of food and was skittish with the horses.

"Yeah, I remember Snowy," Alfred grumbled. "But we have to make it to Arthur before he switches locations. We have to hurry—Ludwig, you can do the honors!" Alfred tossed the Player his sword. "You could use the XP, anyways."

By the time darkness had fallen, Alfred worried it would have been quicker to drag the thing behind the caravan. Ludwig had explained once to Alfred and once to the tearful Feliciano that the dragon had some unique anatomy and something or another and they had to harvest all of it.

" _All_ of it?" Alfred called out of his makeshift tent.

"Unless you want to pitch in," Ludwig yelled back, "Then I would _pack_."

"Feliciano, could you stop sobbing?" Alfred asked brightly. "It was just a dragon. Look, I'm sure Arthur has something else for you. Maybe a cat or another one of those dogs Ludwig keeps, too. We couldn't have kept it alive, anyways."

Feliciano refolded the same shirt, the wrong way once again. "Oh, dragons aren't so bad. We didn't have to kill it."

That's what he said about every beast Alfred killed. Didn't matter if it was a dragon that had just destroyed a city or one of those flying-cow-things that they usually had for dinner. If it was alive and someone killed it, Feliciano cried. NPCs killed Alfred.

Finally, after a day of waiting around for the dragon to be cleaned, Alfred's party started moving again. Alfred didn't stick around to listen to the other Player's chat. It was all the same: the game, the XP, the homes. It was so much better to race through the trees and the streams, loosing himself in the static air.

It was something his home—the real world, whatever Players chose to call it—didn't have. While home had skyscrapers and huge bridges, this place was wild. Trees that stretched on into forever, where no one had seen the sky. Seas that no one had ever returned from. Caves that turned into tundra that turned into deserts. If it wasn't for the battles and the looming threat of death, Alfred would have loved to trudge through every swamp and dungeon this place offered.

Distantly, distantly, Alfred remembered. His brand new car, his college acceptance letter, the new game console in celebration. A brother, a mother—

Then his horse skidded to a halt, whinnying at the thin air. Ah, this was new. Alfred led his horse around , watching as the faint sunlight shimmered against some sort of barrier. Last year, it had been a river with burning water. While Alfred ran after adventure, Arthur closed himself in.

"Knock, knock!"

No reply, but Alfred knew he was watching. Alfred scoffed, hopping of his horse and approaching the barrier. Usually, Arthur was all show. This thing probably wouldn't even—

"Don't touch that."

Alfred retracted his hand, grinning. "Did you miss me? I brought you a bunch of goodies. Yesterday, we found this weird whiskered dragon thing. Stripped it bare just for you. Took an extra day."

Arthur stood a few feet away from the shimmering, absent-mindedly fixing his hair as he smirked. A year hadn't done much—it rarely did. Arthur's hair was shorter, neater. He wasn't using his good hand, which was weird. He held it firmly by his side, hidden under his cloak.

"You probably ruined whatever was of value," Arthur said in greeting. "If it was whiskered, it was from the south. Thank you for killing it—they were going extinct, anyways. God knows leaving one living," Arthur shook his head, mock aghast.

What a dick. "Did you miss me?" Alfred asked, leaning on his horse. "I've missed you. I've missed your angry eyes and your angry voice and your angry… Angry. What is this, anyways—"

"Do _not_ touch that." Arthur flicked his hand, and the barrier bled into the trees. "That will kill you, if you're leveled high enough. How many other Players have you killed, Alfred?"

"Asks the man who has a creepy death thing," Alfred breathed, carefully stepping closer to Arthur. "I rode ahead of the rest of them."

Arthur shrugged and turned, motioning for Alfred to follow. "Are they better than those other sots you brought along ten years ago? The ones who went about plundering around the NPC villages for loot or whatever they did."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "What is everyone's hang up on NPCs? God—there's this Player who's traveling with me, Ludwig, this beast, he fights awesome, kills shit left and right and doesn't have the guts yet to go around killing people. He brought this—this—NPC that cries all the time. It's ridiculous. They're not people."

"Alfred, you're practically a NPC yourself," Arthur snapped, glaring over his shoulder. "You should hear the Players that come through here. They all know about Alfred the Knight, he who has been all around this land and has yet to kill a single Player."

"Fuck off. I'm not coming back next year."

"Good, it'll be just like _last_ year."

"Oh, my God, what the fuck did you do to your tent?"

Arthur's looked tent more like someone had ripped out a room from an apartment building and placed it in the middle of the woods. Hell, maybe that's what Arthur had done. It wasn't unheard of for high-level mages to summon things from the real world. But this tent-apartment thing was ridiculous. Bare, concrete walls made up the structure, riddled with pipes that led to nowhere, a door with a number nailed on.

"Did you install electricity?" Alfred poked at an exposed wire. "Fuck, can you even _do_ that in here? In… The game, I mean. Christ, I liked your tent better. This is just…" Alfred stood in front of the door, cautiously reaching out.

Hadn't he lived in New York? Tiny apartments, leaky faucets, hazy skylines?

Arthur leaned against the door frame, knocking on the door. "The Moderators don't see it. Fantastic. They can't recognize it, so they walk right by. The computer doesn't understand 'apartment,' so even the Players can't report it." Arthur's slight smile turned into a familiar scowl. He kicked the door. "Oi! Open up!"

The Shop Boy opened the door, raising an eyebrow, annoyed. "What can I get you?"

Alfred groaned, pushing the NPC aside and shooting a look at Arthur. "What the fuck is up with you people and NPCs? They aren't people. They're just…" He scowled at The Shop Boy, "Code. Fake. Get me a Coke."

"His name is Peter," Arthur muttered.

Peter raised his other eyebrow. "I'm afraid we don't have any Coke available."

Alfred felt like he was in a dream. Arthur removed his cloak to reveal a sweater vest. Peter was wearing dinosaur pajamas. There was a stairwell leading upstairs, and a cup of cold tea was on the kitchen counter. Alfred the Knight felt very out of place in his clunky armor and unwashed hair.

"Armor off if you want to walk on the carpet," Arthur said, walking into the kitchen.

Numbly, Alfred did as instructed. There was a ceiling fan. There was a cat curled up on the couch. It was warm—there was heating, something other than a fire. It smelled, well, a little like bleach. Alfred sat down, ass hitting soft carpeting.

Twenty-five years. He hadn't felt a carpet in twenty-five fucking years.

"Bloody hell, are you crying?" Arthur was leaning on the counter, smirking at Alfred. "I didn't think you'd miss me that much. It's not much. Took forever to figure out how to code the—"

"Code?" Alfred's head snapped up.

"Yes, Alfred, _code_ —"

"That will get you killed," Alfred stood, marching over to the fridge. "Holy shit—is that Wonder Bread?" He shut the door, turning to face Arthur. "That's amazing. Wonder Bread." He let out a short, barking laugh.

Silence. Alfred watched Arthur, grinning at the dorky vest and the knitted socks. The toss of the other's head, proud and regal like the king he should have been. A year.

"Want to make out?"

"Focus," Arthur muttered. _Too_ quickly. He totally wanted to make out.

Arthur held out his arm, the one with the Display on it. He had fucked it up beyond belief. Instead of the screen neatly embedded in his skin, Arthur had picked away at the surrounding flesh. Wires mixed in with the surrounding veins, disappearing into the muscle of his forearm. The whole area was surrounded by a painful looking red.

"Christ, what did you do to yourself?" Alfred approached, taking Arthur's arm. He ran his fingers over the screen, whistling. "You've gone crazy out here. Does it still display your Stats and XP? Why—"

"I found a way for us to get out, but we have to destroy our in-game bodies to do so," Arthur explained, tapping the screen. "It's not… Pretty. Fucking hurts."

Alfred couldn't breathe. He dropped Arthur's arm stepping away. "Leave? You can't leave. We—no one can leave. That's suicide. Francis—"

Arthur turned around, throwing the cold cup of tea into the sink. It shattered, and he cursed. "This is different. They said you couldn't mess with the coding and I did, Alfred!" He turned back around, hand wrapped around his forearm. "We can make it. I know we can."

"Arthur, your arm looks half ready to fall off, and we just can't try to go. Not after Francis—"

"This is different than Francis, Alfred, it can work. I waited, and I perfected it." Arthur gripped his hand harder, and it must have hurt, but he just kept nodding and looking so sadly at Alfred. "It can work."

Alfred's back hit the fridge. God, castles were so much bigger than this freaking kitchen. You could breathe in a castle, not in a tiny apartment. It was too hot. Where the hell was Ludwig and—

"Alfred?"

"Home? Arthur, why didn't you just…" Alfred searched for the word. "Go?"


	13. Dreams

It was a very strange sort of day. The kind of day where Arthur didn't remember much but the present, the standing in front of Alfred. The couch was too big, and Arthur had trouble seeing his hands or what time it was, but Alfred was in front of him, clear and precise.

"You don't love me!" Alfred was yelling, and the couch grew along the floor like a centipede.

Arthur couldn't speak, but his chest hurt. Every time he opened his mouth, he couldn't get a single word out. Shaking and panicking, again and again he tried to speak, to stop Alfred's accusations.

"How _dare_ you bring that up," Alfred yelled, pushing Arthur back with his strange, undefined hands. "You don't know _anything_!"

Arthur was gasping for air, drenched in a sort of horror he had never known. Alfred kept getting angrier at—something Arthur couldn't hear. Alfred had taken off his glasses, and there was something wrong with his face. What, what, what was it?

And then the sound cut back in, and Arthur was yelling back.

"Know? I know more about you than you would think, _little man_. You should have seen how you looked at me, like I was a _god_. And now you think we're equals—but who always has the final say?" Arthur felt that terrible, terrible fear making his chest tight.

Alfred's voice was off now, and all Arthur could see was his face, twisting and contorting. The couch had nearly touched the far wall, so it began to grow upwards. Why was it so dark? Arthur remembered these words in the light.

"Shut up, _shut up about him_!" Arthur screamed, and then his not-hand slapped Alfred.

Then Arthur was on his back. He couldn't move and all he could see was the ceiling, stretching away into forever and darkness. Alfred's voice was nearby, or was it far, telling Arthur something. It was all over, not clear like it had been before.

"I'm sorry… Please, look at me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it. Hey, look, please…"

Over and over again. Alfred sounding more and more desperate. Arthur wanted to reach out, scream, move, something, find Alfred and hold him and tell him useless words that would make everything better. But Alfred's voice was getting farther and farther away, and then it became footsteps.

A door opened and shut. That was clear as a bell. And then endless, cascading darkness, tires screeched.

Arthur fell onto the couch. He sat up, gasping, eyes wild. He had hands now, but where was Alfred? He had left, but where had that stupid bloody git gotten himself off to?

Arthur's eyes fell on the front door, and he vaulted himself over the back of the couch.

"Alfred!" Arthur screamed, ripping open the door and charging into the snowy night. "Alfred!"

Knee deep in the snow, Arthur fought to the road. He reached the asphalt and slipped on the ice, falling heavily onto his hands and knees. Breathing.

"Arthur?"

The hurried crunching of snow, and then Alfred was in crouching in front of him. Arthur nearly cried out in relief. Alfred reached out, gently touching Arthur on the shoulder. His hands weren't the blurred mess like before.

"I thought—"

It was the first snowfall of the winter. It was explained later that the man hadn't had the time to put snow treads on his tires.

All Arthur could remember was the blaring of a horn, the terrifying sound of tires searching for traction, light appearing, and then Alfred was gone. In his place a car, for a few moments, and then the view of the neighbor's yard.


	14. Space Race

America remembered the Space Race—the first one, anyways. He remembered the febrile excitement of it, the fear-fueled pissing contest between he and Russia. Rockets, satellites, shuttles. Dog, monkey, man. It had been an exciting time.

And then, of course, the interest in space waned. America's Bosses stopped looking at the stars and toward the other nations. The various space missions—2020, 2060, 2097—languished in debt and postponements.

The Space Race was left in America's text books and his movies.

Nothing in particular crossed America's mind when he read about England's sojourn into space. As the date loomed nearer and nearer, various speculations about the futility of the exploration slowly crept through the news and Internet. During world meetings, England would stay quiet about the event, despite America's and, later, Russia's questions.

America was one of the few thousand who tuned in to watch the space shuttle—The _Conqueror_ —take off. 

Then it all but disappeared off the news.

The headline that appeared five years later rocked the world.

ＥＮＧＬＡＮＤ ＣＬＡＩＭＳ ＨＹＤＲＯＧＥＮ ＰＬＡＮＥＴ； ＰＲＩＣＥ ＯＦ Ｈ ＥＸＰＥＣＴＥＤ ＴＯ ＰＬＵＭＥＴ， ＥＮＧＬＡＮＤ ＲＡＭＰＳ ＵＰ ＰＲＯＤＵＣＴＩＯＮ

Not fifteen minutes later, America's Boss called.

America was proud to say he was one of the first on the space shuttle, and it was he who had hit the warp button. When he wasn't in the cockpit, setting the course for bigger and better planets, America had his face in a porthole, watching as galaxies and stars zoomed by.

It was some of the most incredible things he had ever seen; planets made of diamonds, planets darker than coal that suck up light, planets covered in dry ice, planets covered in black forests. Of course, _England_ had gotten all of those planets.

It was infuriating. Every time his shuttle neared a new sun, any planet of value had dozens of satellites orbiting them, all bearing the words: Ｐｒｏｐｅｒｔｙ ｏｆ Ｔｈｅ Ｕｎｉｔｅｄ Ｋｉｎｇｄｏｍ ｏｆ Ｇｒｅａｔ Ｂｒｉｔａｉｎ

Once, just to see if England meant business, America had tried to land on one of the habitable planets. As soon as the ship had crossed the satellites' orbits, one of England's warships had warped over, and had demanded an official apology for trespassing on English planetary gains.

Two could play at that game.

America had used the gravity around one of the major galaxy black holes to whip ahead of England's fleet of shuttles, claiming all of the planets England had set his eyes on. The planet full of fish? Property of the United States of America. The planet full of fresh, clean water? Property of the United States of America. Planet with an atmosphere of helium? Property of the United Fucking States of America.

This was fair in America's opinion. England had developed some weird sonar that allowed him to find habitable planets. Whenever England's shuttle shifted to a new galaxy, America would warp nearby, snatching whatever planets were of value.

It took a good month of this behavior before England finally requested a video chat.

America spun in his chair, psyching himself up before accepting the call.

"England," America greeted, grinning, "How you been, buddy?"

England's camera was above him, showing the cockpit and the various holograms of planets scattered around his head. The nation himself crossed his arms, looking up at the hologram of America's face with a look of faint amusement.

"I see you've been following me," England smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Should have started developing your own shuttle when I did, instead of trailing after me through the universe like a lost puppy."

America shrugged, "Well, you went for power, while I went for speed." His eyes fell on one of the planets drifting around England's head in the hologram. "I bet I can take over these planets before you can, slowpoke!"

England scoffed, a competitive gleam shining in his eyes. "Please, I've been doing this for centuries. I know—"

"You know that pretty little brown planet, with no vegetation on it?" America grinned, winking at England. "I'm going to grow tea on that planet. And then," America leaned closer to the hologram projection of England. "I'm gonna jack up the price on it like no one's business."

England swore colorfully under his breath, but he couldn't stop that look of excitement spreading across his face. "I'm going to find a nice little patch of vegetation somewhere in this galaxy and then raise a whole monopoly of beef, and you're not going to see any of it. Then we'll see who regrets withholding tea."

America laughed into his hand, spinning around so that he could recover. As soon as he was composed, he spun back around in his chair, immediately breaking back down into giggles. "Thank you for going back into space," he managed to gasp out, "I've missed it. I've missed this."


End file.
